


FEEL

by nematode123456



Category: BROCKHAMPTON (Band)
Genre: basically just a vent fic. please dont read this if you dont think you can handle it., drug abuse tw, just a suicide fic pretty much, major trigger warning, self harm tw, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 17:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16330715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nematode123456/pseuds/nematode123456
Summary: written as a vent and barely edited. this is extremely graphic and detailed please be careful. i just needed to get this out there.





	FEEL

**Author's Note:**

> major trigger warning. please be careful

Your name is Russell Boring, and you’ve just decided to kill yourself. You’ve been contemplating the thought for years, and now seems like the best time. You know no one will care. No one has ever cared. If you die, no one will miss you. Your friends are only pitying you, your friendships are a massive web of lies. Your whole life is one big lie. All you ever do is tell lies to the people you call your friends, and little do you know they have been doing the same thing.  
You have a few things to do before you finally end your life. You start by sitting down on your back porch with three packs of cigarettes and a bottle of vodka. This will be the last time you breathe that carcinogenic air into your lungs. It will be the last time you drink poison straight from the bottle. These are the few things you will miss in life. These are the highs that temporarily made you feel something worth living for. You sit back and light your first cigarette as you watch the sunset. This will be the last sunset you ever see, and you refuse to go inside until you’ve smoked all sixty of your cigarettes and downed all twenty ounces of your vodka.  
You are not sure if you should tell anyone about this. you know that no one would understand the pain you’re feeling. No one ever has. Not even your best friend Matt. You’ve told him everything. He sympathizes with you, but you know that truly he doesn’t understand a word you’re saying. You now realize that you’ll never get to tell Matt that your’e in love with him, but you don’t worry too much about it. You know that your love would never be reciprocated.  
Now that the sun has gone down, your lungs are surely black, and your liver has quite a job in its near future. It was time to make your final marks. Leave your final scars. You walk into your bedroom and pull open your sock drawer. You remove the sock where you hide all of your razor blades and you pour them out on your dresser. You choose the newest one, the one that never got to make any marks on your pale skin. you know it will be the sharpest, and you plan to go deeper than you ever have before. You were about to kill yourself, so it no longer mattered how visible your scars would be.  
After you lock yourself in your bathroom, you throw your shirt over your head. You wipe down your arms with a damp washcloth and raise the blade to your skin. You make your first mark. Digging the corner of the razor into your forearm and dragging it across quickly. You repeat the same marks up and down both arms until not an inch of skin is still closed. You then move onto your thighs, hoping that you’ll some how hit your femoral artery and bleed to death with no effort. After covering your slim thighs in deep slits, you begin to cut on your stomach. You decide to do something a bit more creative. You etch the words “IM SORRY” into the pale skin that stretches over your ribs with the now stained red razor.  
At this point you’re dizzy from all the blood loss as well as the nicotine pumping through your veins. Your job is nearly finished. You now sit down at the small wooden desk in the corner of your bedroom and pull out a notepad. You start with letters to your closest friends. You make sure to let them know that none of this is their fault, and that there was nothing they could’ve done to save you. You write a seperate letter to Matt. In this letter you detail your love to your best friend and tell him that you hope the two of you can be together in another life. Next comes the letter to your mom and dad. You know its unlikely that this letter will ever get to them, but you choose to write something brief anyways. You broke all ties with your parents 3 years ago, the day of your twenty-second birthday. In this letter you are sure to note that this is, in fact, your parents fault. If they had’nt have left you, maybe you could have been saved. Surviving without your parents love is a hard thing to do, and you believe it is the main factor that ultimately led you to slit your wrists and write these letters.  
Now that all the letters have been finished, you notice the blood smeared all over them. But you don’t really care, it couldn’t have been avoided. You now fold up the letters and place them in appropriately labeled envelops. It has come time for you to finish things off. You go into your closet and open the shoe box containing the gun you stole from your father’s basement. You pull out the gun and rotate it in your hands, observing the different lines and patterns on it’s different parts. You lift the gun to your mouth with a shaky hand and place the barrel between your lips pointing towards your brain. You tell yourself that all this pain will end in three seconds. In three seconds it will all be over. You wrap your finger around the trigger and begin the countdown. Three. Two. One.  
Your name is Russell Boring, and you’ve just put a bullet in your brain.


End file.
